


smoother than a storm

by xxpaynoxx



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 09:38:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8139310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxpaynoxx/pseuds/xxpaynoxx
Summary: "I’m a prince cut from marble, smoother than a storm; the scars that mark my body, they’re silver and gold. My blood is a flood of rubies, precious stones; it keeps my veins hot, the fire's found a home in me."





	

**Author's Note:**

> a new view on the piquemar dynamic. i might add more chapters, but for now it's open ended.

The shirt feels tighter than it had in previous years. Neymar can see the sleeves are stretched across his biceps more, the white looking transparent and his tattoos almost readable through the fabric. The black tie at his neck isn’t helping the ball in his throat, and his mother flitting around him with a comb and hair gel isn’t calming his nerves, either.

“Mãe, you’re not helping,” he starts to say, but she just shushes him as she runs the comb through his hair one more time before stepping away behind him, pulling him up out of his chair and moving him to the mirror.

His hair looks like a fauxhawk, brown on the top with faded blonde dye streaked through it from that one time he and Rafinha thought it would be funny to dye their hair while getting drunk off the wine in Rafinha’s cellar. Luckily, it didn’t turn out bad on Neymar, but Rafinha had to shave it all off and start over again.

He looks pale in the mirror, his mother’s small hands clenched around his shoulders as she peers around him, shooting him a reassuring smile as she rubs her hands on his shoulders, trying to pull the tense muscles loose.

The door opens behind him, and Rafinha walks in, wearing almost the identical outfit he is, fiddling with his tie as he runs his hands through his hair. He was able to grow his hair out enough to make it look good, and Neymar rolls his eyes as he walks in, a wide smile pulling at his lips as he smacks Neymar’s ass.

Neymar’s mother tuts at him before walking out and leaving the two alone in the room.

Finally, Neymar’s shoulders fall, and he sinks into the only wooden chair in the room, running his fingers through his hair. Rafinha leans back against the wall opposite him, arms folded over his chest and biceps stretching the fabric of his shirt taught.

“Nervous?”

“You bet. Not every day you could be picked to become the most famous person in Catalonia.”

Today was a very important day. Catalonia was hosting a reaping for the royal family’s youngest son, Gerard, in search of a husband. Apparently, rumors had spread that Gerard didn’t want a royal husband; he had rejected every suitor with a drop of royal blood, exclaiming that he wanted someone from his own people.

So, every boy over the age of eighteen to twenty-five was called forward, and Neymar and Rafinha happened to be in that group.

Neymar’s palms are sweaty as they leave the house, as he hugs his mother goodbye for what could possibly be the last time, breathing in her perfume and memorizing how she feels in his arms before he lets her go and doesn’t look back, not once. If he does, he’ll never get to the courtyard on time.

Rafinha is certainly more at ease, striding along as he spies Douglas down the street, speaking to a boy who must just have turned eighteen, with a pale, soft face and massive brown eyes. He looks completely relaxed, chuckling at something Douglas has said, and Neymar secretly wishes he could look like _that._

“Hey, what’s up?” Rafinha calls over, and Douglas grins, dragging the boy over to introduce him.

“This is James. He’s twenty-five, just under the max age,” Douglas says, and James flashes Neymar a smile, dragging his gaze up and down his body. Up close, he sure as _hell_ doesn’t look just shy of turning eighteen, and Neymar blushes and looks away.

They learn that James attended the same schools as them, and he was on the football team for each school as well. He didn’t play much, Neymar recalls; he was more of a water boy slash benchwarmer, but he didn’t seem annoyed at the coach’s decision for his fate.

Maybe, once today is over, he’ll be able to hang out with James more. He seems cool.

The entrance to the palace courtyard has tables spread in front of it, and three lines filing inside. At each table there was a woman with the crest of Catalonia on their navy blazers, and a small prick in their hand as they stabbed the person’s finger, rubbing the blood across a scanner and thus checking them in, before shoving the person inside.

It stings at first, like a shot, but suddenly it’s all over and Neymar is being shoved into the courtyard, hundreds of boys packed into a small space, watching the stage.

Rafinha has disappeared, as well as Douglas and James, and Neymar stands with another boy who towers over him, with perfect black hair and the same outfit as him; white shirt, black tie, khakis and black shoes. He doesn’t acknowledge Neymar is next to him; instead, he stares straight forward, arms tense against his sides.

The stage is simple; there’s four elegant white chairs seated in a row, with a maroon carpet leading up the stairs and into the doors of the mansion. A microphone on a stand is set up opposite the chairs, a white wood podium in front engraved with the crest of Catalonia, and the bowl filled with slips of paper of every name of every boy in the courtyard is sitting on a table next to that, glittering with red and blue.

The buzz in the courtyard dies down as the doors boom open, and four people exit.

The first two are the king and queen, in matching blue and red garb, golden crowns atop their heads, the jewels refracting the autumn sunlight across the courtyard as they sit in the first two seats.

The next is Gerard’s right hand man, one of the royal advisors; Lionel Messi. He’s shorter than Neymar anticipated, brown hair tinged with blonde as he walks to the podium with ease, looking like he’s glowing as he shuffles his papers in front of him. Not once does he look at them, not until the doors finally shut and the final person walks out.

The last is Gerard himself; Neymar recognizes him from posters around the town. His hair is spiked in the front, his icy blue eyes scanning across the crowd as he takes his seat, the end chair, and sweeps his maroon cloak behind him. It looks like he’s looking directly at Neymar, and something flickers across his eyes. Neymar barely catches it, and it’s gone so fast that he doesn’t believe it was real, as Gerard turns his gaze to the speaker.

Messi begins to speak, and it’s a long-winded speech on why they’re there, why this is so important, how long the royal family has held this, et cetera. Gerard yawns, stretching back and throwing an arm around the back of the chair, and Neymar nearly yawns as well, but stifles it as he wipes his sweaty hands on his pants.

“And finally, the moment we have all been waiting for.”

Silence falls on the courtyard, and it feels like everything is holding its breath as Messi turns to the bowl.

“Now, when I call your name, please come up as quickly as possible. We don’t want to be here all day.”

Neymar feels the man next to him snort, and he looks up to see him rolling his eyes and crossing his arms over his chest.

His heart suddenly starts beating quicker as Messi’s small hand reaches into the bowl, shuffling around the countless slips of paper, before grabbing one and pulling it out, unfolding it.

His voice echoes around the courtyard, and it sounds so much louder now that there’s no noise. Neymar isn’t even sure anyone around him is breathing.

“Neymar da Silva Santos Júnior.”

His name echoes around the courtyard, and there’s silence as every eye turns to look at Neymar. His palms are sweating; in fact, every pore in his skin is suddenly sweating, and his knees feel weak as he stumbles forward, pushing through the crowd.

There’s a hand on his arm suddenly, and he looks back to spot Rafinha’s wide, scared eyes before he sinks back into the crowd, the grip on his arm gone as Neymar surges forward, finally breaking through the front of the crowd.

He tries not to look at anyone as he steps up to the stage, and Messi puts his hand out to shake his hand. Neymar is praying he doesn’t notice how sweaty his hand is, and Messi’s other hand claps him on the back, nearly knocking the breath out of him.

“So, here we are! Thank you all for coming out!”

Messi says it like this was a concert, like a short academic presentation, but it’s not as Neymar looks over at Gerard, who looks like he’s examining him, his eyes steely blue. His gaze rakes across his body, more wolflike than James was earlier, and Neymar feels naked all of a sudden, like Gerard can see past his skin and into his soul.

The courtyard empties, and there’s a sudden scuffle behind him. Neymar turns to see Rafinha and Douglas struggling to get to him, charging from the crowd and up the steps. Guards clad in black and blue surround them, but Neymar dips around Messi, earning a noise of indignation from the royal advisor, and reaches for Rafinha, grabbing onto his hand and dragging him past the guards, close enough that he can place his hands on either side of his head, brushing across the small curls on his temples.

Rafinha looks scared shitless right now, eyes wide and glassy and bottom lip caught between his teeth as he looks at Neymar, whose blood is pumping so hard through his veins that he’s surprised nobody can hear it. 

“Take care of Rafaella for me, alright? Please, can you do that?” he whispers, and Rafinha nods instinctively, knowing that after this, after Neymar leaves their home like this, snatched in the middle of the day by the royal house, they’ll struggle.

Just like that, Rafinha and Douglas are gone, taken away by the guards, and the last thing Neymar sees of them before the doors close is Rafinha’s eyes, wide and scared, and he’s mouthing something that Neymar can’t quite catch-

And then they’re gone, and the courtyard is suddenly quiet and empty.

Neymar turns slowly, head bowed and hands clasped in front of him, praying that the king or queen won’t try and behead him with their fancy guillotine.

Instead, he feels himself being brought into a hug, and he looks up to see Gerard’s beard scraping at his face, arms tight around his as he pulls him close, whispering in Catalan as he holds him. It’s so domestic that Neymar wants to cry, but he also remembers that he doesn’t know _shit_ about the prince, and they’ve been in the same presence for about two minutes, so he doesn’t; he bites back the tears and tries to stop his shoulders from shaking. 

Nobody says anything, at least not yet, and the last thing that Neymar sees of the outside world is an empty courtyard, dust blowing across the cobblestones, the setting sun turning them gold and orange like a river of fire.


End file.
